


The Silver Harpist

by MelisandreStark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Rhaegar Targaryen's Gap Year Fling, This came out of nowhere, extensive word vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 16:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20910563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelisandreStark/pseuds/MelisandreStark
Summary: She also does not smile at him. “It is not me, it is only the Lord’s message that I carry that sounds well to you.”The man smiles then, a pretty thing. “I disagree."





	The Silver Harpist

She barely notices him the first time she spots him—in the corner of her eye, silver-gold valyrian hair tumbling down his strong shoulders as his fingers gently caress the strings of the harp he so gently plays. Melisandre does not pay attention to him, for while there is a small crowd stood around watching him play, an even larger crowd is stood around the elevated platform she preaches from to hear her words of wisdom that she seeks to spread to the masses.

Her Lord is a great one—she knows this—and has felt his overwhelming presence often at her long stay at the Red Temple. Born in Lys, she has also been sold in Lys and has never left the island that is her home. Whether she loves her home or not is a question she has not quite decided an answer to, since she has barely left the temple walls since she arrived there as a child save for a few days a week a month where it is her duty to preach. The lyseni are known to be a beautiful race, many with the traits of Old Valyria, and that is perhaps why Melisandre sees this harp-playing stranger as unremarkable and does not spare him a second thought on that first day.

It is a well-known fact that singers and musicians travel to earn their keep, never staying in one place longer than a month or so to avoid become too repetitive and attract new crowds. When Melisandre comes to preach in that same place, a week or so later, she is mildly surprised to see the same man sat playing his harp in the exact same place again, this time with a red haired young man stood by him with a stern and protective gaze. This time, before taking her stage, Melisandre spares a few moments to observe this rather talented young musician.

Never a musician or creative soul herself, Melisandre has never really had any appreciation for music. She hears some of the head priests and priestesses at the temple sing out their prayers at the nightfires and finds it, while deeply holy and important, to be unsavoury to the ear; coarse and unrefined and out of tune, so opposite to the gentle melody that this man makes by brushing his long, strong fingers against the harp’s firm strings.

And she calls him man, but, in reality, there is much youth to his face and body—he’s strong, evidently, but still has the reminiscent lankiness of adolescence. It is then that his eyes flutter open quite suddenly and meet hers directly, piercingly—purple crashing into red—and she tears her gaze away, hurrying up onto her stage and putting the silver-gold haired musician from her mind.

That night, while the higher priests scream out their prayers and Melisandre stands, repeating and showing her love and appreciation for her great lord above, her mind flicks to the harp player out in the city, and his indigo eyes that seemed to go right through her.

She wonders if he’ll be there the next time she goes, not sure whether she’d like it more if he was there or not.

It is just over three weeks later when Melisandre returns to her preaching platform. Traditionally, after about five months of preaching at the same station the priests and priestesses tend to move around to other locations to give the locals fresh faces, and despite the fact that Melisandre is at this point overdue to move there is something drawing her back to her usual spot.

So she returns, with no expectation to see the harpist, but a sense of almost disappointment when he isn’t in his usual spot, with no red-haired companion leering over him protectively. Pushing him from her mind once again, she stands on her stage and preaches to the crowd watching her, delivering her lords message as is her purpose.

When Melisandre finishes, there is a brief round applause and then, as she walks down onto the ground, she sees him.

His instrument is nowhere to be found this time, but his orange-haired companion stands firmly behind him as he approaches. Surprised, Melisandre stands waiting for him.

“You speak well, my lady.” He says. His accent is not of Lys, she realises suddenly, but westerosi—and the lyseni are not so inclined to hand out titles like ‘lady’ to ex-slaves. Still, the sound of being a ‘lady’ is quite pleasant to her, so she does not correct him.

She also does not smile at him. “It is not me, it is only the Lord’s message that I carry that sounds well to you.”

The man smiles then, a pretty thing. “I disagree. There is a priest who preaches a while from here, near where I am staying, named Lozerro, and he does not speak half as well as you.”

“You flatter me.” She says as a monotone reply that does not give away a building sense of curiosity that is beginning to blossom within her. She could just leave the conversation there, leave and forget about this fair musician but some conscience tells her otherwise. “What is your name?”

“Here they call be the Silver Harpist.” He says. “But my mother named me Rhaegar.” The man behind him looks very surprised at the second name the harpist gives, which tells Melisandre that it’s his real name, and that perhaps it has more meaning that he’s going to admit. “And you, my lady?”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “They call me Melisandre.”

“Did your mother?”

“No.”

There is a silence. “Good day, Lady Melisandre. I hope we shall meet again.”

He walks away, and for the next week he is all that Melisandre can see in the flames.

At night she wonders where he came from—if he’s just a simple musician, playing for his next meal or something more than that like her senses are telling her. She sees him cry in the flames, wonders what he has to be so sad about, and sees him laugh and smile as if he’d just been crowned king. The flames themselves have always been her friends, they show her more than most of the other priests and priestesses at the temple and that is why the high priestess saw fit to grant her favour and allow her to rise so high despite being born into slavery.

Eventually, caught in her own internal conflict, she approaches her high priestess with her thoughts and queries, desperate to understand R’hllor’s riddles before the Silver Harpist is gone and it is too late.

The priestess, who’s soft, pale hand caresses Melisandre’s cheek and smiles ever so gently says: “If you see this man in the flames then go to him, so R’hllor would not bless you with these images if it were not for a reason.

So Melisandre does.

She returns to the place where he plays but without her entourage and without the intention to speak—today she is here as a civilian, and today she will learn.

If the harpist is surprised to see her then he does not show it, smiling brightly while his friend stands crossed armed and cautious. It is likely, Melisandre thinks, that this man is jealous of his harpist’s divided attention, and perhaps loves him away that his silver musician cannot love him back. It matters not, because Melisandre does not see this companion who is riddled with jealousy in the flames—only the silver musician.

“Lady Melisandre.” The harpist greets with a smile, setting aside his instrument and standing up as to kiss her on the cheek.

“Rhaegar.” It is an unusual name, valyrian in nature, though many people in Lys can trace their lineage back to the old empire of the dragonlords so really it shouldn’t be overly unorthodox. It feels rather too comfortable on her tongue.

“Where are the others?” He asks, eyes twinkling.

“I come alone today.”

“You are not speaking?”

“I come to listen.” She says, and he looks surprised for only a second. The man beside him appears frustrated. “I have never heard any music quite like yours at the temple. I find myself intrigued by it.”

He looks happy at that. “Well then, I shall play you a piece I wrote myself just last night.”

She sits on a stone nearby, hands resting gently on her lap, and studies him as he strums the strings of his instrument with his eyes closed. It’s not a tune she’s ever heard before, though if he wrote it last night then there’s never been anywhere she _could _have heard it before; it’s soft and even until suddenly it drops rather dangerously like a snake striking it’s prey. No, she’s never had any true appreciation for music before, but she can at least admit that this particular melody is indeed rather pleasant to hear. It lasts for a few minutes before the strings glide to stillness, and she finds herself clapping gently and throws a coin to him.

The Silver Harpist sets his instrument down.

“You play very well.” She nods. “The Lord of Light has given you a gift and you practice it well.”

“It is no godly gift other than you that was my inspiration for this piece, my lady.” He says. “I name it _Melisandre_, for you.”

She’s not entirely sure how to respond to that one.

“Oh.” She says, eyes somewhat wider, raking over the harp.

It becomes clear what the Lord had been telling her from the start quite soon after and that is why Melisandre is rather satisfied as she lays, about a month and a half later, naked in the harpist’s bed after a few hours of rather strenuous activity. She’s not a blushing maiden by any stretch of the imagination but she’s never quite done anything like that, and it’s the first time she’s able to say that she _really _enjoyed it.

“My fair priestess.” The harpist says, taking her hand and pressing against his heart with is so hot Melisandre is almost sure it’ll come back with a burn. “I am loath to tell you some melancholy news.”

She is not particularly bothered by this statement.

“I must return home; my father wishes for me to wed.” He tells her. “But I do not wish to leave this place and you with it.”

Melisandre raises an eyebrow. “You do not wish to wed?”

“I do not have a choice.”

“That’s not the question I asked you, dear harpist.”

He kisses her. It is tender and gentle and perfect. “I would wed you my dear, though I know your hand belongs to none but your Lord of Light. Princess Elia of Dorne, by betrothed, shines dim compared to the flame that is my passion for you.”

This harpist likes to spin poetic webs of flattery, but Melisandre cannot quite let this one slip past her. She knows nothing of the westerosi but has heard tales of Queen Nymeria who originally settled in Dorne, and anyone with a title ‘princess’ must be a little important. “She is rich, this Princess Elia?” She asks.

“Aye.” Rhaegar nods. “But that does not matter. There is something else I have neglected to tell you.”

She shakes her head and puts a finger to his lips. “Do not tell me. I do not wish to know. My only wish is that we stay here, in this bed, for as long as you have left.”

And he grants it; she finds out that Prince Rhaegar has wed Princess Elia and smiles to herself, wondering when they shall meet again.


End file.
